


The Need to Want

by thebravelittlemonkey



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: Kiss With a Fist, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:58:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2449433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebravelittlemonkey/pseuds/thebravelittlemonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cook was consumed by needs.</p><p>The need to drink. The need to smoke. The need to fight. The need to fuck. And Cook was never shy about taking what he needed. Right now what he needed was for Freddie to stop pacing the floor of the shed like he was on a god damn war path to nowhere. But he couldn't, because Freddie was consumed by something much more difficult to appease.</p><p>Freddie was consumed by wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Need to Want

**Author's Note:**

> Set vaguely in Season 3. Don't even ask, I wrote this in a single sitting on a Monday morning. I honestly don't do smut, but screw it, here's some for you all. I'm a good five years late on this fandom train but it's okay. I regret nothing.

Cook was consumed by needs.

The need to drink. The need to smoke. The need to fight. The need to fuck. And Cook was never shy about taking what he needed. Right now what he needed was for Freddie to stop pacing the floor of the shed like he was on a god damn war path to nowhere. But he couldn’t, because Freddie was consumed by something much more difficult to appease.

Freddie was consumed by wants. 

It was a useless thing, Cook decided. Wanting rarely turned into action, not the outward kind at least. It pulled you inside yourself, ate you up with a helpless desire you couldn’t fulfill. It left you trapped in your head while your body shut down. That was Freddie alright. Always the thinker of the two, while Cook let his body rule his mind, let his needs surpass his wants. That’s why he was the one taking Effy home, while Freddie paced a hole in the floor, overcome by useless, meaningless want.  

“Shit Freds, you need to get laid,” Cook bated from the couch, a short laugh releasing the smoke in his lungs before he brought the joint back to his upturned lips. 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” The tall brunette had finally stopped his pacing, pulled short by the bewildering ignorance of the boy he somehow hadn’t erased as his best friend. 

“Just saying, mate, all that pent up energy-” Cook didn’t get to finish the sentence as Freddie hauled him to his feet, the restless ball of consuming want suddenly shattered, spilling out as pure rage: pure need. And right now, what Freddie needed was to hit something.

Cook gave him the first blow; smiled through the split lip as he staggered back and nearly tripped over the sagging chair. He kept on smiling as Freddie charged back towards him, daring him to wipe the smirk from his face, to hit a little harder, to think with his fist before his mind could catch up.

“You’re a piece of shit, you know that?” he spat, taking Cook by the collar as he held him up for judgement, muscles tensed for action but once again halted in their momentum.  

“‘Course I know that,” Cook grinned, relishing in the fire of the brown eyes glaring into his own, but the spark was already dying. “Still picked me though,” he added, feeling the fingers tighten around his shirt, threatening to tear holes in the worn fabric, to reach up further and wrap around his throat. To finally _do_ something with all his pent up emotion, but it was only for a moment. All at once, it was gone.

“Fuck you,” Freddie managed, the venom in his voice tempered by the defeat in his shoulders. He managed a half-hearted shove, pushing Cook towards the door before he turned his back. “Get out.”

“Make me,” Cook demanded, rooted to the spot, licking the blood from his lip as he eyed Freddie with a primal aggression. 

“Cook I said get out,” he repeated, the dim rage filtering through his tone as little more than aggravation.

“And I said: Make. Me.”

Freddie didn’t have a chance to react, not with Cook. His impulses would always be too quick for the thinker to fathom, and in seconds he found himself shoved against the back wall of the shed, Cook’s hands at his throat, eye’s flaring with a deadly desire. There was a scramble for control, but Cook maintained it, pressing the full weight of his body against Freddie’s lean frame, ignoring the fingers prying uselessly at his own hands. 

“Cook...” he managed, voice thinner than Cook remembered. Weak. _Pathetic_. Christ, when had Freddie lost his spine.

“Come on!” Cook roared, breaking from fury to hysteric laughter as his grip tightened, silencing the useless, pointless words, while short nails clawed at his vice grip. He was done with words. Done with all the bullshit Freddie put in the place of what he actually needed to say. The brown eyes had flickered from shock to fear to something Cook hadn’t seen before: pleading. 

And fuck if Cook didn’t like the way the emotion played across his face.

“Calling Uncle on me are you, Fred?” he asked pushing closer against him as he felt the frantic twitch of his chest pulling at air that wasn’t there. His eyes never left Freddie’s, soaking in the pure, unadulterated need, the silent plea that left all of the control in Cook’s hands. Hands he finally, regretfully, loosened from the brunette’s neck.

Freddie managed to gasp in a single breath before Cook took it away again. He crushed his lips against the other’s with a vicious hunger, stealing the breath from his lungs and offering only his own in return. He felt Freddie’s hands instinctively fly to his chest, seeming intent to shove his friend away, but offering only minimal resistance. Instead they clung to the fabric, twisting in his shirt as Cook twisted tongue between teeth.  

When he felt Freddie’s grip begin to loosen, Cook finally offered a reprieve, breaking away as he left his friend helplessly heaving against him. He liked him this way: too wired to think, too dazed to regret. All instinct, no hesitation. And god did he like the way he could leave him breathless. Cook’s hands slipped under Freddie’s loose T-shirt, splaying over the tanned skin as he felt the desperate rise and fall of his chest: his doing.

“Cook...what the hell-”

But Cook refused to let him finish; refused to let more words fill up the space where he needed to be. He silenced him with another bruising kiss, pushing back relentlessly because that’s what he was, a merciless bulldozer of destruction. The villain of the story. He was the shag everyone needed, but no one wanted. He was the temptation, the fall from grace, the snake coiled hot in Freddie’s abdomen as he tried not to feel the pressure of Cook’s knee between his legs. Tried not to let out the moan from the back of his throat.

“I told you, you needed to get laid,” Cook taunted, a harsh whisper against his ear before he bit down at the soft skin beneath it, eliciting a pleasurable jerk of muscles from Freddie’s taut frame. He yanked the shirt from his arms before the other could register the motion, and had his own thrown to the floor a moment after. It was always so much better when he could feel it, feel the yearning pulsing through their veins, the sweat clinging to their skin, the heat washing over him. And Freddie was burning up, radiating with a need for something he had never thought to want.

When Cook kissed him again, Freddie kissed back. He didn’t bother with the pretense of resistance, wrapping one arm around the back of Cook’s neck, pressing deeper into the all consuming need that his affection demanded. Cook tangled his own fingers in Freddie’s hair, pulling hard enough to feel a shudder of pain run through him. The soft groan of discomfort only enticed him to pull harder, swallowing the sharp gasp before it could escape Freddie's lungs.

Everyone needed something to justify it; to separate Cook from something they needed and something they wanted. For Naomi it was anger. For Panda it was logic. For Effy it was drugs. And for Freddie, it would be pain. 

“Shit,” Freddie breathed out, tilting his head up to the ceiling as he tried to ignore the growing tightness in his jeans, the involuntary pull of his hips against Cook’s. Snogging was one thing but this...

This was exactly what Cook wanted. 

For a moment, he forgot to play the part, to be the villain of the story. For a moment, Cook didn’t _need_ anything. The throbbing demand of his own erection barely registered in his mind, eclipsed by a desperate, impossible _want._ A want to feel Freddie come undone in his hands, watch him surrender, to see the pleading need in his eyes once again. A need for _him_.  

Rubbing his hips against Freddie’s in a slow, teasing grind, Cook pushed him flush against the wall, pinning his wrist to the bricks and leaving his body exposed to the poorly concealed craving for friction. Freddie was biting his lip now, pulling at the last of his restraint before Cook ground against him again, sucking at the tender skin under his upturned chin and breaking down the last of his resolve. Freddie’s hips thrust back on their own accord, blindly seeking a touch he could no longer give. Cook smiled against his neck, digging his nails into Freddie’s wrist as he felt another untempered buck of his hips, a soft moan of pain and pleasure.  

Cook slipped a hand between their bodies, pulling at the belt on Freddie’s jeans until he could snake a hand down his boxers, wrapping a firm grip around the growing erection that Freddie couldn’t hope to hide. There was a protest somewhere on Freddie’s lips, but his mind didn’t have time to come up with the words. His body, on the other hand, made a clear plea for action. Cook only grinned, jerking him off the same way he did everything: hard, fast, and relentless. And he got exactly what he wanted.

Freddie came undone in his hands, gripping at his arms like they were the only thing keeping him anchored to the world. He pulled greedily at Cook’s lips when he brought them back to meet his, concealing the sounds the boy was extracting from him until Cook realized his mistake. Turning his attention to make his mark on Freddie’s neck, Cook quickened the pace, savoring every gasp he elicited from the other. Panting turned to moaning, and moaning to something Cook wasn’t expecting.

“Fuck...Cook...” The words fell from his lips with unbridled urgency, the syllables barely fitting between bated breaths. Cook had heard Freddie say his name plenty of times, but not like this. Whatever  _this_ was _._ And fuck if the sound didn’t nearly make Cook come without a single touch.

When Freddie finally did fall apart completely, Cook wished he’d had a camera. Wished he could capture the perfect mix of thrill and anguish and satisfaction that passed across his features, brown locks plastered against his face with sweat, eyes shut from ecstasy. While Freddie rode out the waves of pleasure and exhaustion, Cook finally turned his attention to his own needs, loosening the all too tight zipper to finish a job that was nearly done. He didn’t want to admit how close he was to bursting, how the sight of those brown eyes, begging for his touch was all he needed. How it only took seconds to bring himself over the edge. 

Freddie was still breathless against the wall when Cook came, spilling against his bare stomach like a stain which he wouldn’t bother cleaning. It was clear his friend hadn’t built up the same endurance Cook had against nature’s best sleeping drug. He hadn’t fucked his way past biology yet, and the hands gripping his biceps seemed to be the only thing keeping Freddie standing. 

Now was the part where Cook left. Where he let Freddie collapse on the dingy, old couch to sleep off the mistake he would justify in the morning. Where Cook disappeared out to the streets to find another thrill to exhaust him into unconsciousness. This was the part where things went back to normal, because Cook didn’t count. Not the way other people did.  

But Cook wasn’t quite ready to forget the taste of Freddie’s skin. He wasn’t quite ready to relinquish the heat against his body as he dragged his lips across his collar bone, holding his docile body steady against the brick wall. For just a few more minutes, Cook would be selfish. Cook would be Cook. That was until he heard it again.

“Cook.”

This time, in the lucid aftermath of passion, Cook realized what _this_ was. The tone wasn’t laced with need. Not the desperate, helpless begging he had sought to force from the other boy. No, this was much worse. This was want.  

He bit down hard against the bone, enough to taste blood and hear a curse replace the dreaded name Freddie kept repeating. In an instant, he found himself pushed to arms length, staring back into the face of his best friend with a savage grin. 

“What?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Don’t go all soft on me now, Freds.”

“You’re a piece of shit,” he repeated unsure of how to fit the words together that he needed to say. Wanted to say.

“I know.” Cook laughed at his own humility, shaking himself free of Freddie’s grip as he grabbed his shirt off the floor, heading towards the door.

“Cook.”

He stopped. There it was again.

“It’s one in the morning,” Freddie continued, a casual familiarity ebbing back into his voice. “I don’t feel like picking your ass up from another pub tonight,” he concluded, tossing a blanket at the boy frozen in his shed door. 

It was a simple excuse, unburdened by need or want. Freddie didn’t bother to see if Cook would listen to him, merely kicked his pants off the rest of the way and slumped down onto the couch. He managed to get a ratty quilt pulled over his waist before rolling over and giving into the exhaustion of the night. 

He was half-asleep when he heard the door to the shed close. Nearly drifted off by the time he heard the shuffle of clothes and shoes being dropped in the corner. And it was on the cusp of a dream that he finally felt a heat settle beside him, curling in around his back.

“Yea, fuck you too, Freddie.”

 


End file.
